Stolen Moments
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Candid, domestic drabbles regarding Sherlock and John. Pre-slash and friendship, as well as some non-sexual love in there. Complete for now.
1. Sweet Dreams

01. Sweet Dreams

He rolls onto his stomach and is stirred awake by three simultaneous things: the filthy smell of unwashed hair, the weight of a full bladder, and the sudden chill of his foot slipping out from beneath his warm bedcovers.

Groaning, he rolls onto his back again and stretches, grunting as he wakes his muscles and rubs the sandy grit and gunk from his eyelashes, wiping a hand over his oily face. He drops his hands into his chest, skin cool from being exposed during sleep. He sighs, sits up, and stifles a yawn as he glances at the clock.

Ah, it's nearly noon, he notes. Well, it's to be expected; he did, after all, not get to bed until after three in the morning, thanks to a particularly challenging case that required a bit of breaking and entering.

Unfortunately, this means he has woken up late enough that John will already be out and about, most likely giving a statement to Lestrade on his lunch break before returning to Bart's for his shift.

Sherlock hauls himself out of bed at least to relieve his bladder. He can shower now – it might help him wake up – but he's leaning toward putting that off until he has some sort of hot beverage warm and settled in his gut instead. Coffee, preferably.

Too bad John isn't here to make it for him; John always makes it just right. It never quite tastes the same when Sherlock does it, no matter how well he used to make his own coffee, or how often he has tried (and failed) to mimic precisely the exact process John goes through when he makes it.

An hour or so later, when Sherlock is coming out of the shower, wet curls stuck to his head, he hears the door. John's home; and so soon? Normally he shifts last longer.

"I'm home," he announces tiredly. He had been out as late as Sherlock; it's a wonder he didn't blow everything off and sleep in. But then, John has integrity, and likes to keep up a good reputation about his job, especially after how he nearly lost it the first time. "I wasn't needed today. They said I could go home and rest. I must have looked like a zombie to them; they insisted," John huffs a laugh as he drops off his jacket and shucks off his shoes.

Sherlock steps out around the corner of the bathroom, towel around his waist. "You do look rather exhausted," he agrees as he sizes up John with his eyes. He turns back into the bathroom and adds, "You should go sleep. I will keep my activities quiet for you until dinnertime, if you like. Or longer, if you aren't terribly hungry."

"I'm really not," John replies with a small sigh. "Thanks, I'll go sleep. I hated waking up this morning, but work had to be done."

"Oh, civilian work," Sherlock mutters, "Tedious. I don't know how normal people put up with it day in and day out. What I do is so much more fun. Spontaneity is what keeps life worth living, I say."

"Yes, well. Sometimes I like a little routine so I know when I can get a break," John mumbles as he walks past the bathroom and glances it at Sherlock, one hand braced on the doorframe. He's seen Sherlock in various states of undress enough that it hardly fazes him anymore. Sherlock does, after all, occasionally sleep in the nude if he gets too hot, or is too lazy to shut the door when he goes to pee. "Anyway, behave yourself for a few hours, yeah? Quiet is good and all, but sometimes you're up to your worst shenanigans when you're quiet."

Sherlock smiles into the angled mirror, using it to look at John. "I will try my best to refrain from anything that could be deemed devious. I think I'll read, or browse the internet."

"See? That's perfect. Thank you," John says with a gesture of his hand as he leans off the doorframe. His eyes are squinting and there are bags beneath him. He really needs to sleep. He's been up almost as much as Sherlock has for the past three days.

"Sweet dreams, John," Sherlock says in jest, but John sends him a smile as he heads for his room that stirs a pleasant feeling fluttering in Sherlock's chest. He shrugs it off and resumes toweling off his hair and giving his stubble-littered jaw a shave.


	2. Favors

02. Favors

John fidgets in his chair and reaches into his jumper, beneath his second layer, and attempts to alleviate a nagging itch somewhere on his right shoulder blade, but to no avail. Even as he hunches his shoulders and leans into it digging almost painfully into his skin with his middle finger outstretched, he can't reach it.

John tries using his opposite hand, twisting his wrist until it aches and rubbing his thumbnail toward the spot, but the blasted itch is stubborn and spreading, and not to anywhere his hands can reach.

"Dammit," he murmurs under his breath, and he rubs his back against his chair like a bear against a tree, hoping friction will cure the incessant itch. Again, it fails. He growls in frustration. Maybe if he ignores it long enough, it will fade away…

Ah, nope. That won't work. The more he tries to ignore it by purposely thinking of other things, the more he thinks about how he's trying to avoid the itch, and winds up focusing on it in the end, the niggling feeling of irritated, ticklish skin prickling in one spot between his shoulders.

Sherlock walks in the living room then, finding John squirming in his seat and neglecting his laptop, open to a fresh document for their recent-most case.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock frowns.

"I have a damn itch on my back that I can't scratch, and it's killing me," John nearly barks, he's so beyond the point of no return. "Gah! Is there an unsharpened pencil or a capped pen anywhere? I need to relieve it before I go mad!"

"Don't be daft," Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes as he comes up behind John's chair. "Stand up."

"What? Why? Too buggered to help me look for one?" John frowns as he rolls his shoulders and rises to his feet.

"No," Sherlock replies as he spins John by the shoulders and hikes up his two shirts. "Because I can just as easily get rid of the annoyance for you. It's faster and less trouble. Now here, hold your shirt up. Using both hands is the most efficient method."

John tenses up. Then he scoffs as he reaches behind his head and holds his shirt up, exposing the skin of his back to the slight chill of the air of their flat. This isn't normal, is it? "I bet you'll want me to scratch yours in return, huh? As the saying goes," John scoffs.

Sherlock's nails are neither long nor short, and being not recently trimmed, they aren't too sharp. He rakes all ten down John's sides with precisely the right amount of pressure to feel satisfying; not ticklish, not painful. He spins his clawed hands in circles as he spirals down the center of John's back, scratching back and forth a little sharper over John's shoulders blades and between them to thoroughly rid him of his initial itch.

But oh, it feels so gratifying to have the rest of his back scratched as well, patches of skin feeling soothed from an itchiness John didn't know he had until Sherlock's nails went over the spot a few times before moving on.

For a moment, John closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation. "Mm," he hums, "My mother used to do this for me. She would scratch my back when I was a child when I came to her, complaining it was itchy. She told me I should put on more lotion, but who can fully put lotion on all of their backs? I can get most of it along my shoulders and the small of my back, but the whole middle is missed, and that's what gets the itchiest."

"I would ask my brother to scratch my back for me when I was a child," Sherlock remarks as he brings his nails down John's spine one final time before retreating completely. John drops his shirts down and tugs them into place, adjusting his jumper. Facing Sherlock, the taller man adds, "I understand the need. And I hope you will return the favor to me when I need it in the future."

"Oh. Um, of course. Yeah. That's only fair," John nods. It's definitely a bit unusual for male friends to scratch each other's back, John thinks, because there is something highly personal about putting one's hands on another's bare back to bring them pleasured relief to an irritant. Still, it doesn't feel like a big deal. After all, Sherlock's fingernails had solved his problem and felt bloody good.

#

Later that week, Sherlock comes to John and jabs his thumb in the air, gesturing behind him. "I'm itchy. Scratch me, would you? I'm using my favor."

"Oh, sure," John says as he sets down his teacup and motions for Sherlock to spin around. He yanks Sherlock's shirttail from inside his trousers and hikes it up best he can, tight as it is, to Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock pins it behind his neck and sighs contentedly as John's nails graze over his skin, following the planes of his back in zig-zags that leave slightly pink trails in scribbles on Sherlock's pale skin.

"Thank you," comes the obligatory response, and John nods.

"Any time. Actually, could you do mine real quick? Scratching yours made me realize how tingly my back feels. Need it, too."

Sherlock gives a small, amused smile. "Certainly." And so John turns around, lifts his own shirt, and lets Sherlock's nails work their magic.

#

It becomes a sort of routine for them. At one point, Sherlock will come up to John, turn around, unbutton and drop his shirt, or, if it's looser, lift it over his head, and bear his skin to John, seeking the touch, the relief, the closeness.

In return, there are times when John will stutter, "Could you –? Just, if you're not busy, I could use it." and start lifting his shirt and waiting for Sherlock to stop what he's doing for a moment and watch John pivot around for his back to be scratched.

Sometimes, one will be in the bathroom in the morning, towel around his waist and shaving cream on his face, and the other will pop in, use the loo, and on his way out, after washing his hands, he'll scratch the other's back without having been asked, simply because it's exposed and there and everyone gets itchy after waking up in the mornings.

In the end, it's a solid deal. Maybe a bit intimate, maybe more than what a friend would do, but nothing to complain about, mind.


	3. Assistant

03. Assistant

"John: I require your assistance," Sherlock demands.

It's the evening of a gala Mycroft is hosting in order to weed out a notorious and high-class criminal. Sherlock and John must attend in order to spot him, naturally. But in order to attend, they must act the part. And that means highly formal attire.

John, still getting into his smoky grey and rich, woodsy brown three-piece suit, sighs and turns on his heel to dash into Sherlock's bedroom. He finds Sherlock's bowtie a mangled mess and Sherlock looking huffy and defeated.

"I went over the diagram multiple times! Why isn't it working for me?" he complains ardently, his face flushed with frustration.

John smiles, trying not to laugh. "The Great Detective, foiled by a bowtie. Hold on, I need a moment to enjoy this."

"You are absurd and cruel," Sherlock grumbles under his breath. "Don't make me beg, John. I need your help. In all the years you've worn military attire, surely you know how to tie a bowtie?"

"Of course I know how," John laughs as he steps away from the doorway and into Sherlock's personal space. He slides the tie off of Sherlock's neck and moves out to the ironing board. "I need to fix this first, though. Steam the wrinkles you've made in it, or it will look heinous once it's tied."

Sherlock grunts, but waits patiently for John's return.

The silken fabric is warm and soothing as it returns to Sherlock's neck, and John's fingers are short but nimble, not slipping one into the knot, and with a jerk or two, the bowtie is tightly tied but not constricting his throat, and looks as perfect as a clip-on tie.

"There. Anything else?"

"I'm too exhausted to button all these blasted buttons," Sherlock mutters, gesturing to the vest around his torso, open and displaying at least a dozen buttons with a line of threat leading to each of them, making them look Victorian and stylish.

His suit is mostly black and charcoal with silver-grey buttons down his front and on his cuffs. It is also a three-piece suit, like John's, although Sherlock's resembles more a tuxedo than John's, given the bowtie. There is a peak of white around his collar and at his wrists from his undershirt, and his clothing is all perfectly tailored to his extra-long torso and tucked in the right places.

John sighs. "Oh, okay. I'll button them for you. But you're putting on your own jacket, thank you. There was no one to help me with my waistcoat, so I'm not doing everything for you."

"I would have helped you, had you bothered to call me," Sherlock replies swiftly, tiredly. He groans in agitation as John buttons him up and walks around him to tug down on the vest here and there, adjusting it accordingly. "Uhg, this is so _irksome. _I hate that my brother had to organize a gala for this. Why couldn't we have tracked him down like we normally do?"

"It's easier when he's in a public place. We can lure him out when he's off-guard. You know that, Sherlock," John reminds as he picks up Sherlock's jacket and stands behind him, helping the detective into it anyhow, despite what he said.

"I _know, _but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ it," Sherlock snaps, but he soon sighs and drops his shoulders, buttoning the two buttons on the jacket to bring it closed. "I'm sorry. You are a very good assistant, John. Thank you."

"Humph," John scoffs, but he's secretly pleased. He gives Sherlock a once-over and adjusts the layer beneath Sherlock's vest to tuck away a stray wrinkle from his undershirt prior to smoothing down the sides of Sherlock's jacket. "There, you're set. Now I need to finish dressing myself and tying my own tie."

"Go right ahead," Sherlock says as he turns toward the bathroom. "I need to at least attempt to tame my hair. It's frizzing again."

"That's because you're sweating. You're too antsy," John smiles. "I'll just be a minute. Then we can leave, right?"

"Should be able to, yes. Are you going to eat?" Sherlock asks as John is out the door.

John pauses. "Hmm, no. There will most likely be a buffet table there. I'll eat while we look for our criminal."

Sherlock nods as foamy mousse spreads out in his palm. He rubs it between his hands and weaves his fingers through his hair, disliking using product, but deemed it necessary. Before it settles, he combs through the sides of his hair and on either side of his part atop his head to smooth down the frizz and tame the curls. His hair looking sleekly soft but formatted, no stray clumps of mousse within sight, Sherlock nods against his own reflection before turning out of the bathroom.

He tries to picture this as a disguise and not what it is: Sherlock conforming to the expectations of others.

At the door, John has his nicer coat (one Sherlock bought for him for this occasion, since John's usual jackets won't do) draped over one arm, and his shining dress shoes on. He's waiting patiently for Sherlock. It almost makes the detective smile.

Sherlock slips into his long coat and drapes his scarf around his neck, not tying it this time. He slips on his own shoes, ties them, and jokingly, holds out his arm.

John sends him an odd, amused look, but he takes Sherlock's proffered elbow nonetheless. He drops his hold when they reach the bottom of the stairs leading to the front door, but it gives Sherlock a speck more confidence in the situation as he ducks into the cab.


	4. Mishaps

**A/N: Prmompted by misslovegood7 on Tumblr.**

* * *

04. Mishaps

It's going smoothly until the stray jumps in. Or maybe a bit before that, when John walks it. Regardless, it all happens roughly at once.

Sherlock is testing how mercury transferred precisely from wrapper to candy in enough amounts as the consumption of the two children from the Hansel and Gretel bit of the whole, Moriarty Five-Pip Fairy Tale debacle. He's perched on his stool at the kitchen table, properly protected, for once, from the mercury, and dropping this and that, letting things dissolve.

John walks in, spies a stray piece of candy on the counter, and goes to pop it in his mouth.

"…John," Sherlock freezes. He turns slowly and sees John chewing. He ceases mid-chew.

"What?"

"Sink! Spit! Now!" Sherlock nearly yells as he bolts up from his stool, as if he's about to manually get the candy out of John's system with the Heimlich maneuver. "Hansel and Gretel!" he reminds, and instantly John goes white, and he pivots and starts hacking into the kitchen sink, rinsing out his mouth with water.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Can't you experiment with something that looks less appetizing? – Like, I don't know, the half-finished eyeball experiment you have rotting in bags of scummy water by your bedroom window?"

"No, no; those still need to marinate and receive regular amounts of sun for another two days. This is in the meantime," Sherlock explains. He holds up a vial. "Now, I just need to wait for this to –"

They really shouldn't have left the window in front of the fire escape open.

It's right as Sherlock is speaking that a stay cat leaps into their flat and flashes across the table, knocking things over, spilling candy onto the floor, and nearly shedding its fur off like a jacket as it tenses up, hisses, and meows loudly at the loud clanking and crashing sounds it made from toppling over vials and chemicals and making quite possibly the most dangerous mix in their flat to date.

And John would be worried about he cat getting mercury poisoning if it weren't the for a more worrying dilemma: certain chemicals running together on the floor that shouldn't mix, because as they do, they sizzle and fumes are rising from where they touch.

"Nooo!" Sherlock screams, his experiment ruined, as well as some of his lab equipment. He shoots a deadly look in the stray's direction, where it's perched on a chair in the corner, licking its paw where a bit of broken glass poked it. "I will kill you. You do not deserve to live, you vile creature." And he makes a move toward it.

"No, are you insane! It doesn't know what it's done, and it's just a harmless, dirty and malnourished street cat! Why would you hurt it?" John intervenes as he steps between a wild Sherlock and a wild animal. Sherlock is a thousand times more dangerous.

John turns to the cat. Its ears flatten in anger, but it doesn't appear to entirely hate his advances. He picks it up, noting that it thankfully doesn't have fleas, but it doesn't sport a collar, either. He rubs the cat behind one ear, and down the scruff of its neck before stroking down the back of its head again.

The cat actually starts to purr.

"See? It's perfectly innocent. And what a shame," John adds, "It was declawed. That's punishable by law. Who would do that? It can't even defend itself," he says as he steps around the clearing smoke of chemicals and moves for the living room.

Sherlock begrudgingly cleans up his supplies and chemicals with the utmost care, but with plenty of seething rage. The kitchen is a disaster area, and John steers clear and opens a window in the front, the cat rubbing against his chin.

"Sherlock," he calls out as Sherlock is halfway finished with cleaning, "I'm keeping this cat."

"What!" The detective exclaims. "After what it's done? All because you _pity _it? No! I absolutely forbid it, John. It has no place here amongst experiments or cases –"

"I wanted a dog, but you wouldn't let me get one. You said it required too much maintenance and would only do good if it was a sniffer-dog, like a bloodhound, and I wanted a bulldog. A cat may not be a sniffer to track men for you, but they take little to maintain. All they need is food and water left out for them somewhere, and a litter box to use as a loo. I'll take care of both. Please, Sherlock? It has nowhere to go and wants a family so badly it leapt into our window. Please?"

Sherlock glares at John, but his expression is so sincere and sweet and pleading and adorable in a way a grown man's expression should never be, that he sighs heavily and agrees to it. "Fine. _Fine. _Keep the bloody cat. But all of its expenses are coming from your own wallet, not mine!" he returns with a huff, tossing out broken glass.

John smiles and nuzzles his nose into the cat's cleaner fur at the back of its neck. "Hear that, Kitty? You're mine now."

The cat meows and purrs as it rubs up under his chin again.

#

Five months later, the cat is in perfect health, its fur brushed to shininess and a lovely blue collar is around its sandy brown and black-striped neck. It has white gloves on three of its paws, and white along its tummy, but only a triangle of it on its chest. It's shorthaired, mainly, but has, oddly enough, the genes for a bushier tail than normal shirt-hairs. It's a mix-breed, certainly, especially with its oddly orange eyes instead of the common blue, green, or gray that comes with striped cats, and its male.

Sometimes, John doesn't know who is the king of the flat: Sherlock, or the cat he's named Norbury.

Norbury was a case during which Sherlock got a bit overconfident and wound up being wrong on. It was solved, but not in the way he thought, and therefore, whenever he gets a little out of hand (not to mention cocky) with his deductions and ideas and is trying to force a bit of cleverness into an otherwise simple case, John is meant to remind him of the case by saying, "Norbury" into his ear.

But now, a bit out of spite, he will call out with a cooing voice, "Here, Norbury. Here, kitty." For short, he often refers to the cat as Norry, which Sherlock likes a bit better, because he isn't reminded of a failure on his part ever time.

However, despite this, John has caught the cat sleeping at the foot of Sherlock's bed in the mornings when Sherlock sleeps in, and Sherlock never shoos him out when the cat slinks up to the head of the bed and rubs his head into Sherlock's mop of hair.

And, more than twice, John has caught Sherlock idly petting Norry while he reads, the cat perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, or draped along the back, behind Sherlock's head, on the sofa.

Despite the mess of candy and broken glass and chemicals the day the cat arrived, he seems to do well in their flat, knowing what to avoid and what not to, ever since that first day. He loves John the most, naturally, since John saved him, but he's warmed up to Sherlock and Sherlock to him, and that's probably the best thing John could have asked for when he decided to take the stray in.

#

"John, Norry would like a treat. Give him one."

"We don't have any cat treats. …Do we?"

"We do. I purchased them today on my way back from the morgue. They're beside his bag of cat food."

Sure enough, John finds the treats, and as he shakes the bag, Norry comes walking immediately over, sniffing the air curiously. John gives him one shapes like a little fish, and Norry devours it in seconds. Then he meows loudly for another. And another. John gives him five before cutting him off.

"Good lord, we've made him into an addict!" John chuckles as he tucks the treats away. Then he spots a shipping bag on the counter. "Sherlock's, what's in this bag?"

"Oh, I bought you some candy as well, since you seemed so keen to eat the poisonous candy I bought when this cat entered our life. I didn't know if you would like fruity or chocolaty, so I got both. That's alright, I hope." And he sounds so nonchalant about it, but John is grinning like a madman.

"It's perfectly fine. Thank you, Sherlock." He opens the bag and picks out the chocolate bar. He enters the living room, opening it as he goes, and breaks off a piece. "I can't eat that much sweets, though. That's why I can hardly stand sugar in my coffee. So do you want the rest? I just like a taste of candy, that's all. I can do without the rest of it."

Sherlock opens his mouth, as if to say something, but as he keeps it left open, John understands he's meant to put the chocolate into Sherlock's mouth for him. He steps over to the sofa where Sherlock lays and drops a piece into Sherlock's mouth. He munches quietly, going back to his reading, Norry coming over and jumping onto the sofa, curling up under the gap left as Sherlock rests his feet on the armrest, leaving a space open on the cushion below.

John sits back in his armchair and smiles. Between cases, their flat might just be the coziest place in existence, he likes to imagine.


	5. Odd Music

**A/N: Prompted by charliebravowhiskey on Tumblr.**

* * *

05. Odd Music

John enters the flat after work and frowns, standing in the doorway, trying to grasp what he's hearing.

"Sherlock, are you listening to… Oh, what's it called? …Dubstep?" he says after a pause, trying to remember what he recalls seeing on the internet about this kind of electronic music. A voice leaks into it, rapping. He blinks. "A dubstep remix of a… an American rap song?"

"Shh, John. I need to listen."

"What? Why? It sounds awful!"

"It's for science, John. An experiment in how music of varying types effect moods. Rap is meant to make teenagers either angry or horny, and dubstep is meant to be for dancing or energy. I thought I would save time by finding a merge of the two, as well as see what sort of feeling might be created when both are involved."

"…And you're using yourself as a test subject."

"Oh, no. I'm using Lestrade." He holds up his phone, and faintly, John can hear under the music, 'DAMMIT, SHERLOCK, I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS! TURN THAT RUDDY SHITE OFF! I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU ABOUT A CASE!'

"…Shouldn't you listen to him?" John remarks as he raises a brow.

"Uhg, no. The case he's referring to is horrendously simple. They even know who did it. They just want me to find him, which I don't feel like doing, since he is obviously hiding out at his dead aunt's old home in Sussex."

"He is?" John can faintly hear Lestrade say. "Well done. Thanks." And he hangs up.

"Drat. Lost my test subject," Sherlock sighs. He glances up at John. "You're next, then."

"Oh, no. I'm not going to sit here and listen to strange music with you –"

Suddenly Sherlock puts on something that sounds more like screeching than anything else. Skrillex. John recognizes it.

"Argh!" John clamps his hands over his ears and yells, "Turn that off, turn it off!"

Sherlock changes it to someone yelling hoarsely while rock instruments plays. Screamo music, then.

"That's not any better!" John roars.

"Is it making you feel angry? Like you want to break things?"

"I'm going to _break open _your blasted _head!_" John threatens.

"Excellent. Duly noted," Sherlock says, marking something casually as if the music doesn't annoy him. He changes it again. It's rock music still, but a bit slower, with more singing and only bouts of small screams, and the lyrics are depressing. Emo it is, then. "How about this?"

"I swear to God, I will gouge out my ears."

"Emo teens are associated with cutting themselves. Perhaps their music is why, then, if you wish to inflict bodily harm to yourself whilst listening," Sherlock muses.

"No! That's not – Sherlock, just please, put on something else. Classical. Country. I don't care, just something more tolerable than this!"

The Beatles come on. John relaxes. "Much better." He frowns when the singer comes in. "Hang on, it sounds different."

"It's from a film. 'Across The Universe.' They covered The Beatles."

"Oh, now that's just _wrong,_" John moans as he sits down in his chair and puts his face in his hands. "When are you going to give this up?"

"Right about now," Sherlock sighs. "It's not getting many results. You seem to dislike everything. Tell me, John, what sort of music do you even listen to?"

"I don't know. Mumford and Sons is something I've caught on the radio and kind of like. And I like listening to you play your violin, when you do it right. I don't know; I've never been much a fanatic for music."

"Hmm. Apart from well-orchestrated classical, neither have I. Still, I wondered what the buzz was about with some of this." He suddenly puts on a rather obnoxious noise of a woman's voice and odd, nearly hip-hop like sound, and John winces.

"God, what the _fuck _is that? It's heinous! Why is she singing to this garbage, or singing like that at all?" John wails.

"Some American named Nicki Minaj. Apparently, this is her _style,_" Sherlock says, and he, too, is wincing. He stops the music and closes his laptop. "I will never understand Americans."


End file.
